Stars, Stripes, and Accidental Friendships
by Morbid DramaQueen10
Summary: "Maybe, she reflected, he was just as trapped as she was in the bubble that was New York City." A series of moments. Everything, in some way, can be a beginning. Darcy Lewis/Steve Rogers.
1. Chapter 1

**DISCLAIMER: Avengers ain't mine. It's all Marvel's. **

**I like Steve. He's sweet and light, very different from the darker sort of characters I usually write. And Darcy is just…bubbly. Sarcastic. Not a character I ever saw myself writing, but I feel in love with her wit after reading a few fan fictions featuring her. This was a spur-of-the-moment fict, written to distract my bored mind from my 30-chapter epic Loki piece.**

**-XXX-**

"Hey. Whaddya up to, Cap? Chillin' like a villain up here?"

Steve jerks back slightly from the edge of the roof, his focus over the city broken. Looking back toward the door, he sees a figure, a silhouette against the florescent illumination of the stairway beyond. The feminine figure shifts slightly, unrecognizable, then steps back from the threshold. He then recognizes Jane Foster's research assistant. A name doesn't come with a face, though, but he smiles. Friendly, as ever. She seems nice, if a little odd.

"Hey," she says again, tilting her head. In the moonlight, her glasses flash, shielding her curious gaze.

"Hello," he replies quietly. Shifting slightly, he tucks the black leather-bound sketchbook beneath his thigh. The assistant's eyes follow the motion, but she doesn't comment.

Approaching with a brash casualness he's still trying to get used to out of women these days, she stops beside him, standing as he sits, looking out over the sea of black and twinkling dots. She tucks a few flyaway caramel-coloured locks behind her ear, then adjusts her glasses. Then she looks down. He's shamed to be caught staring, but for the life of him he _cannot remember_ her name. She smiles.

"Darcy," she reminds him. "Darcy Lewis. Or, if you're into the whole military thing, Lewis, Darcy."

"Right," he says, embarrassed. "Sorry, still getting acclimated to…to all of this."

He gestures to the city at large, but she recognizes it as something a little more internal.

"Oh. Yeah, totally." She nods, eyes back on the town below. If you squint, you could make out the little yellow bugs that were taxis, start-stopping every few inches. "I mean, waking up from a deep-freeze seventy years in the future would probably scramble my eggs too."

Steve stares, a little opened mouthed. "Uh…."

Darcy continues lightly. "But I think you've handled it super-well. I mean, I wouldn't be able to get out there, kick some alien ass like you have. I can hardly decipher Jane's handwriting, or make it to my kick-boxing lesson."

"Oh, it was…it was nothing," the hero says faintly. "Kick-boxing?"

"It's like boxing, only with more martial-arts moves. And kicking is allowed," she clarifies. "Wow, you have missed a lot, Captain."

"Call me Steve," he says quickly. "If you don't mind."

To his surprise, she beams widely.

"Cool. First name-basis with another Avenger. Tony says I still have to call him 'Mr. Stark.'"

Amused (another surprise – this young lady is rather humorous, odd lingo aside), Steve asks, "And do you do it?"

She snorts (unattractively, but it is almost, dare he say it, _cute)_. "Hell no."

Sitting beside him, Darcy props her feet upon the ledge, leaning back. He watches her tilting, finding a comfortable position. She is a curious bird to him – but then again, so are most women in this day. And it wasn't as if he was much of ladies' man back in the forties; he knows little of the opposite sex aside from what he inadvertently learned from Peggy. _"Peggy." _His chest aches briefly, then he swallows. Swallows back down to the pit of his stomach, were it rests to simmer against his abdomen.

"Hello? Earth calling Captain USA?"

He blinks. "Sorry."

Darcy relaxes. "No biggie," she assures him. "You were just kinda spaced out. Like, a few million light years away. I thought the kindest route of action would be to call you back. What are you doing up here, anyways?"

"Just thinking…" Steve frowns. "I grew up here. But I can hardly recognize any part of the city. It's all moved forward…. It's not the same place anymore."

"Well, yeah." Darcy shook her head. She pulls down on her ski cap, considering the night around them. "That's kinda how progress works."

"It's just a little disconcerting," he whispers.

They sit in total silence for a moment. Street noises from below rises to curl around the pair. Honks and screeches, the sound of angry engines and impatient walkers. Darcy closes her eyes. Beside her, Steve does the same. The noises are nearly unchanged. Even if the landscape isn't.

It is she who breaks the relative quiet. "You lived here?"

He opens his eyes. "Yes."

"Hhmm. Were you a Queens Kid?" She smiles, imagining a Steve of the 40s.

"Brooklyn boy, actually."

"Really?"

"Born and raised. It was a very different city, then. A lot safer for a kid. You could still play ball in the streets – I don't think with all the traffic today it's exactly encouraged." He grins slightly at the memory. "I worked as an apple seller, and a newsboy. When I was a little older, during the war, I collected tin and metal stuff, and bottles, then I sold bonds…we lived in a boarding house with three other families. Got kinda stuffy."

"Whoa. That's why you like the smaller room, right?"

"Uh –"

She cuts him off, a little sheepish. "Tony was talking about it, that's all. He said when you submitted the designs for your room, it was, like, super-tiny."

"I don't need a lot of space," he mumbles, looking down. "Don't have a lot, anyways. Comes from –"

"Being an icicle?"

"—moving around so much with the army," he finishes, eyebrows raised. Darcy just smiles. "Are all girls like you these days?" he wonders aloud. Once it's out of his mouth, however, he's shamed by his own audacity, and ducks his reddening face.

However, Darcy just laughs. "I don't know, Cap, haven't you seen any other ones besides me?"

Still cowed, Steve silently shakes his head. In awe Darcy leans forward.

"Seriously? What have you been doing all this time? We need to take you out," she decides. "Clubbing. Asap. There is this really good one in Harlem my friend Ricki is always trying to take me to – you should come."

"Ah –" Steve visibly hesitates.

Taking pity on him, Darcy swiftly changes the subject. Clearly the fellow didn't really do clubs. Or girls. Or anything, really.

"So, what's this?" She moves to touch the corner of the sketchbook, inclining her head. For a moment, Steve stares at her waves bobbing, then he seems to jerk out of it.

He shifts slightly, pulling the book out from where it's jammed between his leg and the concrete. Shyly, the superhero flips through the faintly yellowed pages, touching the cream-coloured surface, fingers skimming over the graphite lines.

Fury gave him the book only a day or so after Steve woke. Without a word, the tall, one-eyed SHIELD director had passed him the leather-bound book along with a green tin box of charcoal and pencils. Inside was a small penknife for sharpening, a few blending tools, and two new erases, one shiny and pink, the other a gummy yellow. Steve accepted with reverence, caressing the pure, untainted pages.

"I heard you liked to scribble," said the director roughly.

At that, Steve had looked up, blue eyes wide. Uncertain, he nodded. The Captain was entirely unsure of what to say, what words of thanks were appropriate. Fury's dark eye crinkled briefly, and Steve could've sworn he'd seen fondness there in the dark depths.

"Thank you," he said finally, halting in his words.

The director said nothing, merely gave a brief jerk of his chin, then turned on his heel and walked out.

He's not drawn in a long time. A once-favourite pastime, he's just not had the passion or calling since he's woken up. The yearning to depict scenes or folks around him has run dry. But tonight, alone in the darkness of his room, hearing the faint creaks and moans of the massive building around him, as the memories threatened to surface, Steve Rogers headed to the roof to do what he always did; face the troubles head-on. Sketchbook in hand, the Captain ignored the elevator for the stairs, asking JARVIS to lead him. Once there, he allowed the sorrow to take him.

Steve sketched faces from the past. Bucky, and Peggy, mostly. He drew his shield, a quick scrawl of his stage shows, the girls in their flashy costumes and the fawning crowd. It was therapy – better than any of the crackpot doctors Fury had sent him to over the month. Nothing was learned from these shrinks, aside from the fact that Steve has a deeply-seeded Heroes Syndrome – an need to save everyone.

"The problem is," one kindly psychologist said. "This time, it's you who needs saving, Steve. And you might not even realize it or know how, but it's the truth you're unable to see until you've saved everyone who needs help."

He thanked the women politely, then later refused to go back. Fury had lifted his brows, but made no comment, said nothing, merely turned to Coulson to confirm this.

"It's my sketchbook," he explains, offering it forth.

Darcy accepts. Running the pads of her fingers across the smooth leather surface, she seems to absorb the moment – the sounds of the night around them fades as she focuses solely on the book. A look of seriousness passes over her young face.

"Can I look?"

"Oh. Yes – I mean, yeah."

A smile flickers over her lips. She cracks opens the pages, then flips through slowly. The faces and scenes are unfamiliar until she reaches the back pictures – the rough, sharp sketches of Natasha, Tony, Clint, Bruce, and Fury. There is a drawing of Thor's hammer, the hard lines and leather grip so textured to look real. Darcy doesn't know a ton about art – she took a few classes in high school, and crocheted a bit, but this was legit stuff. Skill.

Several minutes are spent examining. Steve waits, holding his breath. He hasn't shown his sketches…ever. Peggy caught him drawing once, by mistake, but he'd never purposefully displayed anything before. When he was younger, it was a little shameful. He was already seen as something of a wuss because of his small size – until he began fighting back, regardless of the size of his attackers. The bullies would've had a field day, though, if they'd known.

"They're really good," Darcy says finally, tone reverent. "Seriously. You should like, frame a few of these babies. They'd sell down in SoHo, no doubt."

"Um," he starts, colour rising in his cheeks. He is grateful of the dark, so she can't see his flush, and discern his embarrassment. "They're more for me, than anybody."

"I gotcha. For your own viewing pleasure. Totally." She turns back to the page with Natasha. "Nat's looking really hot."

His cheeks feel hotter than ever. Steve is surprised steam doesn't rise from his ears.

Darcy traces the curve of Natasha's wide lips. "Did you take lesson, like, back in the 40s?"

Steve swallows. "No. I'm entirely self-taught."

"Impressive." The research assistant grins. "Thanks for sharing, Cap."

"You're welcome. "

Silence resumes. They gaze together out, then up, following each other's lead. The moon is a jackle's half-grin, wide and white and more than a little clever. Sinister. The heavens are dotted with pinpricks of light. Darcy thinks that the stars out here aren't to be compared to the ones in New Mexico, where the sky seems endless and the horizon goes on forever. New York feels like a massive bubble. She can't ever see the skyline, and sometimes, it makes her feel trapped.

Looking at the superhero beside her, the research assistant realizes that maybe somebody else in Stark Tower felt more than a little trapped, too. Hurled seventy years in the future into a city he no longer understood, all those he loved and care for – once – gone. Departed and deceased. Virtually alone when also surrounded by hundred of doctors, scientists, and SHIELD agents. Ignorant of the lingo, the governmental blah – not so different from her, Darcy.

A swell of understanding and companionship rises in her chest.

"Steve," she says abruptly. "We should hang."

His fair brow furrows. Darcy quickly revises the statement.

"See each other more. Spend time together. You like beer?" He seemed so pure, she reflects, maybe he's not one for drinking.

"Yes," he says, still confused – a state he is finding himself in more often than no these days.

"Good," she replies enthusiastically. "We should go bar-hopping. Um," Darcy explains at his creased forehead. "Basically going to clubs and pubs for some socializing over drinks. I'm sure you'll pick up a shitton of numbers."

Blinking, he agrees (though with loads of hesitation).

"Maybe we can even go dancing," she offers. "Although, maybe we should try some out first…I'm sure the moves have changed a lot since your pre-icicle existence. When you were a kiddo…I mean, things have probably changed a lot. When my gran was going to proms, there was no pelvic contact."

Steve grimaces at the thought, chin slack. "I've actually never danced before," he admits. "So, I'll be learning something new."

Darcy grins. "That's cool. Though, I'd love to learn some of those jazzy steps – the Charleston, and stuff like that."

"That was from the –" he begins, then bites back his words. "Sorry."

"No problem," the assistant assures him. "It'll be fun, reintroducing you."

"Yeah."

Silence resumes briefly, companionable, before Darcy rises.

"I better get in. Jane probably is going to start early tomorrow… joy of joys. And my Pop Tart supply is running low, so I might have to make a Starbucks run before nine a.m." She grimaces, eyes wide, comical. "But I'll see you around. Later, okay?"

He's a little taken aback. "Later. Yes."

She stoops slightly, hand extended. "Darcy. You gonna remember next time?"

But her smile is easy, so he agrees readily, grinning back. She hands him his book, then shrugs her sweater around her – a "_hoodie_" if he remembers correctly – and makes for the door, pausing before she ducks through the threshold.

"You know, if you even need anyone to chat with, just sit up here, or whatever, I'm always free. Jane is pretty good about personal time, and stuff. So… you can text me. Or call. Or smoke signal. Whatever works for you. I'll hang, whenever."

Surprise again, Steve nods slowly. "That would be great, Miss Lewis."

If he didn't know better, the Captain would say the young research assistant was colouring. But with the light streaming out behind her it is hard to tell. He sees the flash of teeth, however, and feels a little more reassured that he hasn't said the wrong thing. Actually, he thinks it would be hard to ever say the wrong thing around this girl – she's outrageous in her own right. He might not comprehend all that she says, but it's just off-the-wall enough for him to guess she is something of an oddity. But a really nice sort of oddity at that.

"You can call me Darcy," she says mildly. "And thanks, Cap."

**-XXXX-**

**I browsed a few photos of Stark Tower, and I think it would be perfectly possible to sit on the roof. I had my fears, and you may challenge them, but it could work.**

**I've got a 2****nd**** chapter started, but I'm "eh" about continuing. I like this pair a lot, but there isn't really plot going anywhere, just a series of moments.**

**Yay/nay? There's a review box just below! Questions, comments, concerns, critiques, I take 'em all. If you like what's you've read, check out my other Avengers/Thor pieces…Thanks for reading! **


	2. Chapter 2

**Stars, Stripes, and Accidental Friendships **

After dealing with a fast-forward to the future, an egomaniac of a billionaire inventor, and then a cray-cray Asgardian god, it would be easy to understand why anyone could be overwhelmed. But, as Darcy observed over the next week, Steve took it in stride. The mild-mannered Brooklyn boy went along life in a calm sort of way. He ignored Stark's jabs, accepted Nat and Clint's quiet acceptance into their circle, and went about his days working out, sketching, or heading his own small ground unit.

Fury gave Steve his own group of young, specially trained, pulled-from-the-army agents that he controlled exclusively for ground missions. They specialized in terrorist operations that were not so delicate as to require Nat and Clint's skills, but delicate enough for Fury to want to avoid Stark's help. Darcy saw the crew of buff young thangs in the Tower once or twice for debriefing. They all clearly worshiped Steve, and would follow the guy into hell.

She caught him on the roof again three days after their initial meeting. Darcy had a feeling that he might be lurking up there again. If he wanted privacy and personal time, well, he could just tell her to go away. With JARVIS's help, she climbed up the metal mint-green (_"Really, Tony?") _stairs with IHome and Ipod classic in hand. Steve appears surprised (_"But not too surprised.")_, and says nothing as she sets up the stereo, than slides beside him, nudging his shoulder with hers.

"Hello."

His lips quirk. "Hello."

"What's shakin', bacon?"

"Uh…"

"How are you?" she revises.

"Good, thanks. And you, Miss Lewis?"

"Darcy. And swell, thanks. I brought us some entertainment tonight." She jerks her thumb toward the IHome. "I figured we'd start slow with the dancing thing. You like Peggy Lee?"

The name is unfamiliar. Steve shakes his head. "Let's find out."

Grinning widely, Darcy stands, selects an album, then a track. Turning back to Steve, the research assistant extends her hand. He takes a second to look over her chipped nails – remnants of an apple-green and aqua polish – before accepting. Standing to his full height, he finds that Darcy reaches his throat. She carefully guides his hands into place, then begins swaying in rhythm with the music. The throaty, smooth tones of Peggy Lee's jazz rises around them, and Steve Rogers closes his eyes. His partner follows suit, and they dance – not exactly neatly, but that is no matter – on the rooftop of Stark Tower.

Darcy presses closer as the song reaches an end. Opening her eyes, she meets Steve's flickering blue gaze. "What do you think?"

"Very nice."

She hums lightly, pleased with herself. "I knew you'd like it.

Smiling faintly, the Captain leads her into another round as the new track starts. They sway, the music overwhelming their minds, and a calm quiet between them. Darcy, who is wearing jeans and a loose cardigan over a _Florance and the Machine_ tee, her hair up in a messy bun, feels a little like a princess (or at least a duchess, or somebody royal). She doesn't know how Steve is dealing with this, but if his relaxed muscles are any indication, he is doing just fine. Smiling up at him, Darcy knows things are going nicely.

He offers, after their dance, to walk her downstairs to her room. But Darcy turns him down, gathering her IHome and Ipod, assuring him she can manage just fine. "Besides, ol' man JARVIS can help me, in case I get lost."

Which is a legitimate concern, seeing as she had, several times, gotten herself misplaced in the massive building. Luckily, JARVIS has seen fit to bail her out numerous times.

"I am only twelve years old, Miss Lewis," the AI program protests lightly. Steve starts, surprised that the program extends to the rooftop. Darcy merely bats her eyes.

"Sorry, J-dog. You sound like you're forty."

With that, she leaves, promising the Captain that she'll take him out next week for some legitimate fun.

**-XXXX-**

Darcy's idea of "legit" fun starts as taxi ride to Central Park. Then turns into a walk around the lake. Which is turned into a conversation. And then hot dogs.

As Darcy bites into her first legit New York hot dog, Steve describes his team. They're all sharp, clean-cut, young, and embarrassingly eager. But, he says, they do the job well, take orders, besides having enough common sense to not get themselves blow to bits repeatedly. He doesn't like the missions in the Middle East – Palestine, Iran, Iraq, Syria, they're all story-book places, locations he'd never even heard of before SHIELD. Darcy reflects that the Middle East wasn't a big problem to the UN until after WWII (which, she remembers, is when the UN was actually founded), with the whole Israel issue. Of course he wouldn't have had much cause to think about it before.

The topic is changed, however, once he spot's Darcy's eyes glazing over. She was never one for war history or politics. So, he changes the subject to New Mexico. New Mexico was one of those few states he hadn't toured for the Army. It was out-of-the-way and not heavily populated, so they'd passed it. He was curious. But Darcy could only say that it was hot and dry with a sky that seemed to last forever. More blue than grey. But more brown than green, too. She liked it there, though.

Circling the Jacqueline Kennedy Reservoir, the research assistant explains, "I didn't mean to come to New York. I mean, that sounds stupid, but I didn't want to really. I still have a semester left before I get my degree, plus I've got an apartment, and I _had _a boyfriend…anyways. I didn't want to come. But Jane couldn't find anyone else, and I was already trained, and she asked really, really nicely, with sugar and a cherry on top. Begged, for real. And what was I going to do? Say no? The pay is great, and, well, it's New York."

She lifts her arms, spinning Mary Tyler More-like around on the asphalt path. Steve hangs back, grinning. When she stops before him, Darcy flashes him a dizzy smile, swaying slightly.

"Land of opportunity, right?"

"What kind of opportunity are you looking for, Miss Lewis?" the Captain asks before he can stop himself.

Darcy shrugs. "I don't know yet. Job. Maybe. Or a relationship. New York is the place to get hooked up. Or so I've heard. I didn't exactly go to college to get my MRS degree, but I wouldn't say no to a deep and meaningful -"

He shakes his head, amused. Lightly, Darcy whacks his shoulder.

"What?"

"Nothing," he assures her. "Just…you're really young."

"And you aren't?" she challenged. "Hold the phone there, grandpa. While you're, like, biologically a kiddo, in real life you're as old as rocks. You're actually old enough to be my grandpa's grandpa."

Steve protests mildly, but with little heart. "I'm not even thirty."

"Yeah, not-even-thirty plus a few. Like, seventy years?"

There is no denying. So he changes the subject. "You're in college?"

"Well, I was. Before Jane dragged me all the way out here. I could always transfer credits, maybe finish up next year. But the SHIELD work keeps me busy."

"What do you do for Jane?"

She releases a long sigh. "Truthfully? Everything. Fetch coffee, set appointments, transcribe, mail, set up shipping and delivery, type papers, control email, some side-research, clean the beakers and other equipment, make Pop Tarts and Ramen, see that Thor gets to drag her from the microscope occasionally…the list goes on."

"That's quite a list." He is impressed.

Modestly, Darcy nods. "Damn straight. Thank god now I'm getting paid. In New Mexico it was only for credit."

This confuses Steve, so Darcy spends the remainder of the walk explaining the intricacies of college credits, classes, and dormlife, including the gory stories of moldy bathroom tile, naked roommates, fornication on bunkbeds, and mysterious leftovers to be consumed when meal blocks were running low. His eyes grow wider and wider, and at some points he even swallows, as if gagging. But Darcy is made of tougher stuff, and continues.

"Why didn't you go to college?"

He shuffled his feet. "It wasn't really in the cards for me. No one in my family had ever gone before."

"Oh." Darcy blinks. "Ah, it's not that important. I mean, some people just do better outside of college."

Now on the sidewalk, Steve looks upwards toward the sun. He blinks a few times, absorbing the light while Darcy readjusts her sunglasses and fiddles with the straps of her purse. The carriage horses on the street shift, tails whipping, heads swaying to and fro. Around the pair, the street bustles with midday life. Darcy waits.

"Do you want to grab a latte, or something –" she starts, but Steve cuts her off –- a very un-Steve like thing to do – one hand behind his head, rubbing the back of his neck, a little sheepish.

"You said 'had.'" He shakes his head. "You said 'had' a boyfriend. What happened?"

The research assistant pauses. "Oh? New Mexico Boyfriend? I moved to New York. He said he could handle long-distance. But the Facebook pictures of his tongue shoved down Anna Michael's throat speak otherwise. So…there went that."

Steve nods, contemplating. "You were sad?"

"Yeah." Darcy's eyes soften. "Yeah, a little. I liked Hank. He was studying to be a nurse – well, Physician's Assistant, or something like that." She sighs, clasping her hands together. "Life happens. Would you go for a cappuccino? Hot dogs make me thirsty."

**-XXX-**

Two weeks later, and they find themselves on the roof again. Darcy lounges, stretched causally against Steve's side. They're both a little drowsy, but the Captain is sitting stalk-straight, looking out over the city, being quietly amused as Darcy rambles on about her day, the tendencies of Tony Stark to annoy Jane, and how she has yet to find a proper grocery that will fully supply her with a decent selection of Pop Tarts as well as tea. Steve thinks of the mission file he's just receive (via email, but there was also a solid copy sent by Fury's office, because they all know he's unreliable in checking his inbox), the one sending him to Kazakhstan in the morning.

He ought to get sleep. He should turn to her, tell her that he's got to be up early, he must prepare and pack and assemble his team. And yet…Steve Rogers wants nothing more than to stay here, with the research assistant curled against him.

"…I just need some time to get used to it, I guess. But seriously, tea and Pop Tarts are vital. Like, less than milk and bread, but still." Owlishly, Darcy tilts her head. "You okay, Cap?"

"Yeah, Darcy," he says softly. "Just a little preoccupied."

"You haven't heard a word I've said all night," she points out, not rudely.

He purses his lips, grimacing. "Then why did you keep talking?"

She shrugs. "Just seemed like the thing to do, you know?"

The Avenger shakes his head. Sometimes, her reasoning bemuses him. He doesn't really know, exactly, but he'll trust her. "I'm sorry."

"No biggie. You've had a long day." Darcy peers at him. "Bruce said something about training."

Steve snorts. He'd taken a few younger agents, Widow and Hawkeye's youths, in for boxing and sparring today. While some of the pairing were enjoyable, more than a few were infuriating, ego-infused fools. He felt tired, bruised, after three days without sleep and a full day of tutoring children. Steve admired the kids – Widow wasn't known for her tolerance of incompetence, so it stuns him that even after time with her they managed to be so very idiotic.

"More like an organized mass beating," he tells her. "I had young ones in today. They…had egos."

"Oh." Her brows rise. "So you kicked ass and took names."

"Not quite in that order. But yes."

Darcy sits up. "Aw. Poor Steve." She leans in to brush shoulders, comforting in her physical way. "Did you scare them?"

He shakes his head. "I sure hope so."

They speak on his experiences with the cocky young "douchebags" further, Darcy giving him pointers on dealing with people her age which include some more immoral tactics that caused him to cringe. "They're dicks," she says flatly. "So you've gotta treat them like it. Just so they know."

He smiles. "Okay, Darcy."

She nudges him again. He is clearly amused by her, probably not taking her seriously, and maybe not even really listening. But hey, he's talking to her. This mega-famous superhero. Hanging with her. Sometimes, in the sludge of her work with Jane, Darcy can blink and realize that she's thinking of Steve. And then she'll sort of take in the fact that she is becoming pretty fair friends with a guy probably eighty or so years older than her, who has been in a coma seventy of those rotations 'round the sun, who is probably the most popular American superhero of all time. Captain America – otherwise known as Steve Rogers of Brooklyn. And this guy is, like, being her friend. Confiding in her. Hanging with her on a regular basis. Going out for dim sum. And, as weird as it sounds in her head, it feels completely normal.

After going through this list of realizations, Darcy will just shake her head, bit her pencil, and muss up her already-mussy bun. He seems to like her. He doesn't attempt to avoid her. He is here to stay. Superheros have just become a norm in Darcy Lewis's life.

"We should go do something," she declares. "I mean, we've been meeting up here loads over the last week, or something. We need to get out. Get you some action." She grins, and then it doubles with Steve smiles back.

"What would you like to do?"

_"Polite as ever." _Darcy straightens. "I dunno. Do you have a burning desire for anything in particular?"

Steve just shakes his head.

"Tomorrow?"

The Captain hesitates. "Ah…I've sort of got prior arrangements."

"Oh." Darcy tries not to let her shoulders sink. "Hot date?"

It's meant as a teasing remark, but a slight of seriousness takes Steve. He grimaces, stiffening with the motion. "No. Uh. Mission."

Instantly Darcy regrets it. Eyes wide, she scoots back. "Oh, damn, Steve, I'm sorry. When are you leaving?"

"Oh-four-hundred," he tells her, not particularly happily.

"You should probably be, like, sleeping."

He doesn't disagree. Instead, he crosses his arms tightly and turns his gaze back upon the hundreds of thousands of flickering lights that make up the New York cityscape. At the moment, he wishes he might've brought his sketchbook. He would've loved to capture this. Or maybe the way Darcy is peering at him worriedly, eyes wide, thumbs tracing nervous circles on the back on her hands. He wishes not to worry her, but they both know that's an inevitable thing. Over the weeks, he's slowly let slip parts of his life before becoming a "Cap-cicle." Darcy was thoroughly heartbroken to hear of Peggy and their _"almost." _The first time Darcy had said it, he'd asked, brow furrowed, an almost-what? But she simply looked at him with wide eyes. "Just your _almost."_

Now he thinks he gets it – their _almost_ has no other words to describe it, because it wasn't ever at a definable point.

It's this _almost _that seems to thoroughly bother Darcy. She's made a point to say a very serious goodbye every time he's been sent into the field. She told him, once, that he made her really consider how short life is. How it can serve you quite a "bitch-slap" in the face with the unexpected. So, she'd start saying goodbyes with sincerity. According to Bruce, Jane was a little "freaked out" by this recent change in her assistant – Darcy had turned into a hugger.

She feared for him. While Steve shyed away from goodbyes, Darcy accepted the fear that should be his, the worry that "farewell" might never be enough, might be forever, and she ran with it. He did not have to claim his worries for she took them, without want or cause, for him.

"Darcy…."

She as an intense look of worry on her face. "Can you tell me where?...No, probably not, right? Classified, though, who am I going to tell…."

One arm finds her shoulder to squeeze. "It'll be okay. Standard, right?"

"Yeah," she breathes. "Sorry."

"Don't be."

"Just…just promise me you'll stay safe, and stuff. And you'll text me when you're back."

"Of course." They both know he'll forget, or just not want to – Steve is not big on texting – but Darcy accepts the vow nevertheless.

"And when you get back…we'll do something."

He smiles again. Darcy feels her throat close. Steve just becomes a beacon when he grins. A light, so radiant in such a simple way.

She accepts a one-sided hug before slipping away into the night.

**-XXX-**

**I dunno how well this flowed….eh. I enjoyed "getting to know" Darcy a little more. **

**The response has been lovely, thanks guys! I think chapter 3 will wrap this up nicely. **


	3. Chapter 3

**Sorry if this isn't quite translating. I didn't set out to write a romance, just a friendship. A beginning, really. **

**Hope you're enjoyed it. Thanks for the support. One more chapter after this! **

**-XXXX-**

He's gone the next day entirely. And then the next. And the next. And Darcy has suddenly taken to slugging about the roof of Stark Tower into the ridiculous hours of the morning, then coming into work very tired and short. Jane observes the aching muscles of her research assistant, but doesn't comment – a thing easy enough to do, when she's already so absorbed in her own little world. Darcy doesn't mention her nighttime rooftop tendencies to anyone. Tony knows, if anything – JARVIS, she has found, cannot keep a secret to save his artificial life.

Suddenly she's paying attention; waiting for news. She can't help but be on edge, snappish when she's transcribing Jane's notes, or sulking over her Lucky Charms while Hawk and Natasha (smokin' even in a fuzzy bathrobe) silently tear into their bacon. Even Bruce, mild-mannered and tolerant Bruce, avoids her avidly. For three days, Darcy is an unfocused mess of emotion.

She hates goodbyes.

Hates that SHIELD is such a snood when it comes to releasing mission updates. It would appear that without Tony's intervention, Direction Fury would be the only one in the loop. Luckily, Tony made it his habit to break into SHIELD's information mainframe on a near weekly-basis, just so they all knew what was up. More than once his hacking tendencies had saved the lives of Hawk and Nat, as well as Thor when he was send down on an Iowa cornfield. So, she knew Steve is still breathing. And that's about it.

Jane keeps her busy. Suddenly, three CDs worth of notes appear for transcribing, along with two notebooks of field notes to type, and then Jane has some obscure social function to attend at the end of the week, one that requires Darcy's more fashionable eye. So Darcy finds herself on dressing duty, standing with Jane before her massive SHIELD-issued closet (privileges of living with a god), attempting to piece together an outfit.

"Are you sure I can't wear panty hoes with this?" the astrophysics scientist asked, lifting a pair of platform, peep-toe pumps.

"Hell no," Darcy growled. "Now hand over the Jimmy Choos."

Still, the distractions aren't quite distracting enough. So, to the roof she goes.

Before Steve Rogers, Darcy had not been particular fond of her new city. She was a western girl – California and New Mexico bred (though, her significant lack of pigment would convince you otherwise). Though not an "outdoor girl" by any means, Darcy did have a certain appreciation for the wide open horizons of her western world. She had never really appreciated it until she'd moved into the bubble that is New York City. The city was beautiful, of course, but not…not home. Meeting Steve on the roof, hearing of his discomfort on returning to a new city, Darcy felt a companion in her longing. And then, he'd turned around and shown her the city he'd known and loved.

In the three days Steve Rogers is gone, Darcy mopes around the park twice. She goes to the zoo. Walks around the reservoir. Appreciated trees.

It is pathetic. When he was home they didn't even spend that much time together! And yet, here she is…moping. Like an abandoned puppy. Worse – like an abandoned girlfriend.

**-XXX-**

Tony, bless him, finally came around with some new update – Steve's team managed to infiltrate the compound of Black Hand operatives that set up base in the formally Soviet nation. One had escaped, and Steve alone had spent three long days chasing the man across the barren, cold desert land. He had scrapes, bruises, but he is alive and well and victorious. According to JARVIS, the Captain had run for well over five hours on the last day and was now suffering from an injured ankle.

There was silence in the kitchen at this announcement.

"Ankle?" Bruce says softly.

Tony, who has his back turned away from the group, facing the sink, jerks suddenly. His shoulders sink and rise, and it takes Darcy a moment to realize he is snickering. "Twist his ankle. Poor Cap."

_"And a punctured lung resulted from a broken rib," _JARVIS adds. _"He is in the medical bay of the Helicarrier. The team was picked up approximately three hours ago. His vitals are steady, and he is asking for some means of contact with Stark Tower. The rest of his team is currently being debriefed by Agent Rector. Arrival time estimated at 2300 –"_

"Thank you, JARVIS," Pepper says, cutting him off. "Please alert Tony when the Captain arrives."

"But Pepper," the genius beings to whine. But he is, thankfully, prevented by Bruce.

"What could've caused those injuries?" Bruce asks, his dark brow furrowed. "I mean, he's Captain America. We've all see his brawn – and he's not exactly susceptible to your typical cuts and bruises."

_"I do not know, sir. This information will be included in the debriefing, but I have yet to access that part of the system, and it has yet to be digitlized."_

Bruce exchanges a look with Stark. The rest of the room – Jane, Thor, Hawk and Nat, Darcy, and Pepper – wait, confusion ruling them as a whole. Yes, injuring the Captain is a difficult task, but it is possible.

With a sick feeling, Darcy can recall the burnt and yellowed flesh of his meeting with the Chitauri. By some chance, she'd seen it one morning in the middle of Tony's living room, right before dinner just two weeks following the New York Incident. Natasha had been cleaning the wound and switching out bandages – something Steve was apparently having issues doing himself – and Darcy happened by. The Captain had caught her wide-eyed stare with some reluctance, then dropped his head back to Natasha's, a little defensive. Darcy had scuttled away in shock.

The group waits up. It's not the first time one of them has been parceled out for a particular mission, but it's the first time Steve has been gone for so long. It's the first time one of them will be coming back anything besides "fine." The first time they've had Darcy here.

"He's fine," Natasha assure her. "Steve is very strong. He'll probably head to his apartment to sleep off all of that Kazakstani grim before he comes here. And don't be surprised if we don't see him till morning – soldiers, they like to quiet their minds before going back into day-to-day life."

Beside her, Hawk nods, pensive. "Cap'll be okay. That super-serum has boosted his healing time, anyways."

"Not so different from me," Bruce adds, his half-smile in place, glasses slipping off the bridge of his nose.

"Only difference is your big green machine," Darcy points out, lips pursing in a small smile. The spies exchange a glance.

Bruce makes tea – a very nice Indian blend no one can pronounce save Natasha – while Hawk pops in a Monty Python DVD. Thor is intrigued. Jane cuddles against him. Tony and Pepper are speaking softly off to the side, just in the dining room. Bruce passes Darcy a mug. She's curled in one armchair, eyes drifting shut at the sound of ridiculous British falsettos. The scientist sits on the arm beside her, smiling slightly. Soon, his gaze, much like the other's are trained on the TV screen.

Two hours later nobody notices the twenty-something rise slowly on sleep-sore limbs to slip from the room. Most everyone is asleep, slumped into couches and chairs. Darcy Lewis, however, cannot sleep. And she needs some space….

The roof beckons. She doesn't even think, merely finds the stairwell and ascends the mint-coloured metal series of steps and rails until she reaches the grey door. Pushing it open, a slap of warm summer air meets her face. Darcy savors it briefly. She steps out.

Relaxing instantly, the research assistant takes just moment to absorb the night; all sounds, all smells, all glorious noises. Then she moves toward the edge – towards their spot.

The city is a sparkling expanse of black and blue and white and yellow. A glittering series of jewels in something that resembles a grid. For all of it's sparkle there aren't enough A-listers in Beverly Hills to wear it's glow. A faint din rises from the streets. Smoke and other dusky scents fill the warmed air, curling into the night beyond, defining the city in more than one hundred words. Darcy breathes this all in. Only a few hours. Only minutes, really. Minutes, and then – and then –

**-XXX-**

He finds her up there. Curled up on a throw that was lying across the gravel. Mouth slightly parted, eyelids flickering with REMs, arms together and tucked against her chest, as if in some form of prayer. She's wearing a ski hat – one with a fluffy purple pom-pom at the top – and a loose _The Great Gatsby _t-shirt over a pair of worn grey sweats.

His ankle aches terribly. The Helicarrier on-call physician gave him just enough morphine to get him to New York, and then up the stairs, but it's wearing thin now. His ribs, taped, ache too. The physician said his lung will be fine; the wound is small, and ought to heal in days (for him, this translates as hours), and will trouble him no further. In other words, Steve Rogers is bruised, worse for wear, and weary. But he's here.

The welcome committee is, comically, asleep. He smiled as he passed, noting Darcy's absence. He means to wake them before he turns in himself. But for the moment, he just wanted some time.

Truth be told, Steve did not expect her up here. Now that he's here, and she's with him, he can't say he minds in the least. He'd want no one else. Silent, Steve crouches, wincing as his chest protests. One hand goes to her shoulder, shaking gently. Darcy murmurs, then jolts, limbs straightening and spreading. He recoils.

Blinking, the research assistant shivers awake. "Mmmmhm?" she moans softly.

It takes several seconds for her vision to clear. When it does, she straightens. Flinging her arms around the superhero's neck, she breaths out. "Steve, damnit – oosp!" she gasps, moving away. "I forgot. How are you ribs?"

"Okay," he grunts, readjusting. "Just…tender."

"Sorry," Darcy squeaks. Her hands go to his broad shoulders, brushing the blue fabric lightly as he focus bright crystal eyes on her wide blue-green gaze. "I forgot, and I was just so relieved…How are you? Did they patch you up?"

"Yeah…how'd you know?" Steve peers at her, amusement tingeing his brow. He's still a little taken aback (but greatly pleased) with the hug. "That's classified information."

With as much grace as she can muster, Darcy admits Tony's hacking and the information it wrought. She doesn't say why he so conveniently decided to break into SHIELD's system – or for who. Steve watches her stumble through the explanation, eyes flickering like a hazy flame, bright. Darcy can't look away, even with all of her slips of the tongue. Instead, she finds herself intently staring back.

"But you're alright?" the research assistant asks worriedly. "I mean, the doctor wasn't a quack who tried to set your ankle with bubble gum, or something?"

Steve chuckles, then moves a hand to his chest, wincing. "No, he was good. Did a good job."

She leans forward. "What did they do?"

Slight smile, Steve taps his tapped rib lightly, then the splint on his ankle. "I'll be good as new in no time."

"I have no doubt."

Silence consumes the moment, and the pair are left staring at one another. Darcy finds her hands moving to Steve's. His fingers curl 'round hers. And then, without a word, the Captain smiles.

"I missed you," Darcy blurts out suddenly. "A lot. Tons. And everyone was worried…no one's been gone that long before…'cept Nat and Hawk, maybe. And when we knew you were hurt…did you really run that long?"

"Yes." He winces again, and Darcy squeezes his hands.

"You're a hero. Whatever you did. You know that, right?"

He thinks of the man's dirty face, the scent of sweat and harsh smoke, the Russian curses he'll repeat later to Nat, then shaking Sig pointed straight between his eyes. He thinks of the rattle of train carts, the grind of metal-to-metal, the squeal of track. Steve feels like anything but a hero. He took a life today. Nothing in Brooklyn prepared him for this. He's killed before, accidentally and purposefully. But it feels the same, either way.

"No," he says honestly. "I'm not the hero. I'm…lucky."

She peers at him, a little confused, but doesn't ask. Merely squeezes again. Her knuckles are white.

"Well, I hope your luck scored you some seriously great painkillers. You need to get to bed, Cap. How long have you been up? C'mon."

So they descend, Steve slowly with Darcy guiding ahead, back to the living room, where most of the group is still asleep. Pepper observes them sleepily from where she lies on one of the smart black leather couches, Tony sprawled beside her, head on her shoulder. Clint and Natasha have disappeared, but the rest are right where Darcy left them. The research assistant pauses as they pass the kitchen.

"You hungry?" she asks, turning slightly, brows rising.

A little sheepish, the superhero admits a slight hunger. Darcy decides on grilled cheese. Steve sits on one of the stainless steel and teak stools as the research assistant pulls out various ingredients from the fridge. Three kinds of cheese layer the sandwich, along with bacon and tomato. Darcy spends the time between flipping the bread chatting in a low voice, small of her back against the counter. She did most of the talking, speaking of all that had gone on in his absence. Between recent satellite launches for SHIELD, Thor visiting and returning from Asgard, and Bruce and Jane jointly claiming the lab for some gama-astrophysics experiment (Darcy was going to be transcribing for both, joy of joys, and Bruce's handwriting was positively dreadful, like a tornado holding a pen had decided to jot down haikus), there was a buzz about the Tower. Pepper is going to Paris next week for a science convention. Hawk had submitted designs for his own room at the Tower – finally – and it included two stories, a "nest" loft, and is to be exceptionally close to Natasha's dormitory.

Steve absorbs all of this as best he can; weariness leaves room for little else besides listening. When his sandwich is done, Darcy sits beside him, nursing a mug of hot coco. She asks him about the mission – whatever he can tell her – and he finds himself telling her, in a hoarse murmur, small things. The train. The cold. The waterlopes they'd found at market.

Slowly – very slowly – he finds his eyes drifting shut. Darcy is quick to lead him to the room that is his – painted in dark blues, with an immense window facing the river – claimed the night after the New York Incident. It's a little big for him, but it's his, so his….He practically falls into bed. Darcy suggests, in a half-whisper, that he might want to remove his gear, but he mumbles back, voice muffled by the comforter, that he's fine, thanks.

When he wakes five hours later, she's gone, as are his boots. He's been semi-tucked into the comforter, sheets to his neck, and there is a plastic cup and glass of water on his nightstand. Pills, smooth and round and white, sit in the bottom of the cup. He swallows them along with the water. Then it's bed again.

**-XXXX-**

**If you're at all a Loki fan, check out my pieces from my homepage! **

**Hopefully Darcy is coming across in character. She's tough, seeing as she has, like, nil screen time. I'm really hoping to portray her struggle with the city with Steve's. He needs someone, you know, to sympathize with? **

**Questions, comments, critiques, concerns, I take 'em all! **


	4. Chapter 4

**Well, this is the end...**

**-XXX-**

Next time he wakes is much like the first, sans pills and Darcy. Struggling to sit up, he finds Pepper instead at his bedside, her simple blue skirt suit pressed neatly and her hair in a basic bun. She straights instantly in her seat, bright smile in place. He likes Pepper truly, and often wonders how someone so put-together has ended up with Tony Stark.

She is still smiling when she leans forward, saying briskly, "Good to see you awake, Steve. The whole gang is out for breakfast…on one wanted to wake you."

"Thanks," he mumbles, flexing his fingers. "You didn't have to stay behind."

Pepper shakes her head. Steve observes a few strawberry-coloured strands fall out of place and drift down to frame her heart-shaped face. Crossing her legs, there is a slight flash – a glare from the screen of her tablet – and Steve is glad to see she's kept occupied.

"I don't mind," she says cheerily. "I needed to do some paperwork, anyways."

"Thank you," he says again, sincerely. At that, he begins to rise, testing his ankle against the cool, polished granite. The ache is dull now, less than it was before, and he thinks he might be okay without an ice pack. Quietly, Pepper watches, her tablet tucked to her chest, blue-grey eyes alight with concern.

"I'm glad to see the SHIELD medics managed to get you back to us in one piece."

"Yes, they did a fine job."

She peers at him. "You probably need a shower and some time to get…settled. I know Darcy wants to see you."

He had not anticipated the flush of heat to his cheeks, nor the increase in his heart rate at the mere mention of the research assistant. "I suppose she might, ma'am."

Pepper laughs. "Oh, I'm certain she does." The CEO casts him a serious glance as she rises, pausing at the threshold. "You know, we non-sciencey type. We regular people…people who aren't superheros. We can keep up." She holds his eyes on hers for a long moment. "Just so you know."

Easily enough he can comprehend what she's implying. Steve isn't sure if she thinks he's dragging his feet, or if it's just a warning, but he doesn't care to find out. Instead, the Captain nods solidly. Pepper smiles again, faintly this time, and slips from the room. Steve waits until the door is shut before he shuffles into the bathroom. A long, hot shower is just the sort of thing that will allow him to think.

**-XXX-**

It ends up being an exceptionally short shower (some military habits will never die). Steve ends up wandering into the main living area. Wandering right into Darcy and Bruce, who were settled across from one another, discussing uniforms. Darcy sits on the sleek white sectional, her legs curled underneath her, while Bruce relaxes in one of the squat black armchairs.

"- I'm just thinking if every the other guy comes out you lose your pants, that's gotta be costing you. I mean, pants are not cheap. There has got to be a better way."

The doctor is nodding, slight smile gracing his expressive lips. Folding his hands, he agrees. "Stark is currently working with a few people in the textile industry for a flexing fabric that can stand great extensions and reductions so that every time I come back I don't find myself completely buck naked. It'd be more like briefs than pants. But, in the long run, it is a necessary evil."

"Still, dude. I mean, last month was those Dockers you really liked – I heard you talking about 'em. When are a man's pants going to be safe?"

He finally catches her eye. Darcy falters in her speech.

Just the sight of him in a white v-neck tee, loose grey sweats (and not the ones with elastic at the bottom, gross, but with loose pant legs and the drawstrings tied), with his hair damp but neatly combed, is enough to make her completely loose her train of thought. In fact, it's so lost, Darcy would later say the train was derailed and crashed tragically into a nearby water tower, where it would be doused in a heavy dose of _Dear-God-Wake-Up. _She stops speaking completely, just to oogle him.

Bruce's slight-smile increases threefold. His fingers steple, and he sits back further to observe the interaction. Steve hesitates, casting a glance to his teammate. But Bruce merely raises his brows.

Sitting a full cushion away from – but still next to – Darcy, the Captain is clearly uncomfortable. Bruce lets them both stew in heavy, intent-laden silence for a few minutes while Darcy stares at him pointedly, eyes flashing. _"Please. For the love of God, Buddha, and the Flying Spaghetti Monster. Get. Out." _He raises his hands to shield his lips, which he is biting. Darcy takes in his sparkling brown eyes. His amusement at her pain is frustrating enough, but now he's just extending the torment.

Finally after what feels like an age Bruce rises. "Well, I better get back to the lab," he says cheerily. "Don't have too much fun. And careful on that ankle, Cap. Do you need someone to check your ribs later?"

"Yeah, thanks," Steve murmurs, gaze flickering to Dr. Banner's only briefly.

With that, Bruce departs, beaming widely.

Silence resumes. Steve stares straight ahead, swallowing, while Darcy takes to looking down at the pillow. Awkwardness takes them like a chill. Neither speaks, each playing over hypothetical conversations in their heads. The research assistant begins to trace the diamond pattern on throw pillow. Steve stares at his fingers.

"How have you been?" he blurts abruptly. "Has…has Jane kept you busy?"

Darcy smiles down at the pillow, not looking up, playing with the tassels. "Yeah. She has."

Another pause. It's Darcy's turn.

"How are you feeling? You look…better. Way better, actually. Some zzzs did you good, Cap."

"I'm much better," he says lightly, though he ducks his head at her smile. "Thanks. Slept. Showered…ah…"

"Yeah, I can tell." Darcy nods to his dampened locks. "Good thing too. You were getting kinda ripe. Which, I mean, anyone totally would after three days. Of, you know. Running and shit. I mean, not that you looked bad, or anything. Because you always look good. Seriously, good. Ah…"

She's never been the broad-shouldered, blonde-hair, blue eyes type. Darcy has always preferred slim, fair-skinned, dark-haired fellows. Guys who liked libraries and coffeeshops. Guys who thought Fiats were cool. Guys who wore ironic band t-shirts and jeans that were a little too worn and sneakers. Those where the fellas Darcy typically goes for.

But sitting her, next to bashful, sweet, bulky Steve, she's reconsidering her "type." Because, right now, instead of slowly edging away from her or getting otherwise creeped out by her rambling, the Captain is slowly beginning to smile. Grin, even. There is even something like a blush rising in his cheeks. Darcy Lewis finds herself being completely and entirely charmed.

"Thank you," he tells her seriously. "I appreciate that."

She shrugs. "Hey. I only speak the truth. Glad to have you back, Cap. I've missed my roof-buddy."

His baby blues twinkle. "Don't tell me, things would be dull up there without me."

"Well. I mean. Who else was I gonna teach to dance. We've still gotta get you out to a club. We need to make plans, man!"

Steve considers this – considers her. Darcy gets the sense that he's taking her a little too seriously. But she doesn't break eye contact, not once. Then, thoughtfully, Steve leans forward. He extends one hand.

"Plans…plans sound good."

For maybe a solid minute, Darcy stares at the hand being offer. It's calloused, the colour of warm Miami sands. Clean. Solid. A good hand.

One she accepts. The fingers curl around her own, squeezing briefly. Darcy looks back up at him. Steve's eyes are suddenly dark, sort of, but in a warm way. Suddenly she's squeezing back and smiling and God, her cheeks are probably pink too, but hell, it doesn't matter now, does it? She's not even really sure what has happened between them. No matter. Something has happened, and damnit, it's something good.

And it might've turned into something better, however, JARVIS interrupts the moment in his clipped, upper-class Brit tones.

_"Mr. Rogers, Miss Lewis, pardon me for the interruption," _the AI began smoothly. _"But I thought I might warn you that Mr. Stark, Ms. Romanoff, Mr. Barton, Mr. Odinson, Ms. Foster, and Ms. Potts are all on there way up here. Specifically, to see you, sir. Shall I…ward them off?"_

Steve looks to Darcy, who rolls her eyes theatrically. Another squeeze.

"No," he says, directing his attention to the ceiling – where one might imagine an AI's source to be. "By all means. I want to see them."

_"Very good, sir."_

The research assistant makes to pull her limb away. God forbid anyone see them. Tony would have a field day. But Steve doesn't let her. He doesn't let go. In fact, he shifts closer to her. Where Darcy is tense, Steve begins to relax. So when the group arrives, they're legitimately sitting together, legitimately holding hands. Nat's and Pepper's eyes instantly train and zone in on their combined limbs. No one mentions it, though, not a word is spoken in regards to the pair.

And that, to Darcy, makes all the difference.

**-XXX-**

Later, on the roof, around ten p.m., he's taken up her hand again. Silently. His thumb traces across the tops of her knuckles. They are thoughtful, for the moment. Peaceful. At-ease. Darcy could use and hundred thousand words to describe the moment, yet none would be able to quite sum it up.

His sketchbook rests on his lap. He'd made some drawing on the Helicarrier before it dropped him in the barren wasteland of the Black Hand's hideout. Inside the leather bindings are pages upon pages of clouds and loosely sketched jets. Darcy has never thought of airplanes or fighter jets as "pretty" or "graceful." Perhaps it was the way the Captain portrayed them – sleek lines, liquid form, metallic sheen. They are creatures of shine. _"Kind of beautiful." _

"These are brilliant, Steve," she whispers. "Seriously. We need to get you a studio, or something. Like, for real. You're amazing."

Steve smiles widely. "I'm not so good. It's…something to relieve the boredom."

"You're gifted," she says firmly. "You're very good. I would kill for your talent. Steve, you really are something."

The Captain, the Brooklyn boy, watches her bite her lower lip. Perhaps he might believe her. She is genuine now, no sarcasm, no biting remarks. Merely open. Hushed tones. He's a little startled.

She turns another page. What greets her this time is a softly-drawn portrait of her, lips quirked, face shadowed, head tilted. It is – dare she think it – charming. Cute, even. And she looks way better than in real life. He's captured a sort of light in her eyes, and made her hair – ski hat included – look totally nicer than it ever has in the history of Darcy styling her own hair.

Looking up, she blurts out, "I missed you loads. More that I have before. And…and I'm super-glad you're home and not too hurt."

"Me, too."

"And I'm glad…I'm glad of this." She raises their combined hands. "You make me happy, Cap."

"I'm glad to have the chance, Miss Lewis."

With this she slaps his knee lightly. The unspoken _"Call me Darcy," _passes between them. She bites her lip again. But this time…this time it's to hold back a small smile.

Darcy leans into him, brushing his shoulder. For the first time, Steve leans back. Warm with quiet joy and sleepier heads, the pair sink into a smooth silence. And together, they watch the flickering lights of the city that never, ever sleeps.

**-XXX-**

**It's not so much an ending as it is a beginning. A little tentative. **

**Hope you're enjoyed this snippet of my ship. Really this was just me trying to understand Steve and using a chance to write Darcy. They're lovely. Thanks so much for the support. More reviews would be lovely! **


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